


Inveterate Scars

by storm_of_sharp_things



Series: Here Beside You and Me [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, I DON'T KNOW WHY ALL THE ANGST, M/M, T.S. Eliot - Freeform, also there’s a random moose sighting, but they do sort it out, just because, sorry for all the angst, teensy bit of Shakespeare, violent nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:08:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21825685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storm_of_sharp_things/pseuds/storm_of_sharp_things
Summary: Third in our T.S. Eliot-infused series "Here Beside You and Me"Arthur and Eames reach the safe house north of Montreal, but Arthur is not doing so well - he has nightmares and can't go into a dream.Title is from T.S. Eliot’sFour Quartets: Burnt Norton
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Series: Here Beside You and Me [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1424176
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	Inveterate Scars

Arthur woke with a desperate gasp and, even before he opened his eyes, he reached over to the other side of the bed. He heard a tiny sigh as his hand came into contact with a warm shoulder, and then Eames was gathering him into his arms.

“I’m right here, darling,” he murmured, voice low and rough from sleep. “Was it another nightmare?”

Arthur, shivering, burrowed into Eames’ warmth. He inhaled along Eames’ stubbled jaw, trying to throw off the miasma of the nightmare, clenching his teeth to hold back the noises he remembered making in the dream - wordless whimpers as he tried desperately to make it _stop_.

Eames rubbed soothing circles on Arthur’s back. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

Arthur shook his head, finding a pulse in Eames’ throat and sealing his mouth against it, counting the steady beat against his bitten lips, _one_ and _one_ and _one_ over and over, irrefutable evidence of Eames’ continued existence.

“Arthur, love...”

“Sorry, I’m sorry, Eames, I’m sorry...” Arthur felt the words spill from his mouth and stopped himself, holding his breath hard to prevent more sounds from escaping.

Eames cradled Arthur’s face in his hands, thumbs tracing what Arthur knew were distinct dark circles under his eyes. “This is nothing you need to apologize for, love.” The guilt banked behind Eames’ eyes glowed like the stubborn remains of a bonfire, coals bright and hot under suffocating ash, and Arthur wanted to scream, to rage against his own weakness.

Like the coward he was, he pulled away instead and retreated to the bathroom, turning on the cold tap and splashing his face viciously with the frigid water, shuddering under the shock. At least it startled his body into full awareness and Arthur felt a little of the clinging metal-tasting murk of the nightmare fall away.

He took a deeper breath and looked up at the mirror, verifying the dark smudges under his eyes, the still-present gauntness, the haunted shadows he’d thought Eames’ presence would banish. He looked past his own reflection in the mirror to meet Eames’ gaze, reflected from where he was leaning against the doorway behind Arthur, worried lines marring his gorgeous face as he chewed on his lower lip. Arthur found it easier to keep looking into Eames’ eyes in the mirror, and knew by that that he was still damaged, still broken. As if he needed the reminder, after...

Eames let his lip go and opened his mouth to speak, but Arthur forestalled him. “Ash Wednesday, part three,” he said heavily.

Eames’ brow furrowed as he searched his memory, then he frowned. “‘At the first turning of the second stair’?”

Arthur flinched very slightly, then sighed and nodded for him to continue.

Eames moved to stand behind Arthur and rest his hands on Arthur’s waist. He kept Arthur’s gaze in the mirror as he recited the rest of the stanza.

“‘I turned and saw below

The same shape twisted on the banister

Under the vapour in the fetid air

Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears

The deceitul face of hope and of despair.’”

Arthur bowed his head and closed his eyes as Eames leaned closer and pressed his mouth to Arthur’s nape. “So, still nightmares about me killing me in front of you?”

“Dead you. Killing real you. In the goriest, slowest ways I can apparently imagine.” He shuddered as a flash of memory brought him images of blood and viscera, echoes of raw, rasping screams...

“Arthur.” Eames’ voice was warm and rich and he held Arthur back against his chest so easily, the arms wrapped around him so strong and alive and unmarked... “I’m right here.”

Abruptly, Arthur was sick of his own cowardice, sick of dread and despair, sick of running hopelessly in place while his own irrational fears stalked him. He opened his eyes, met Eames’ apprehensive scrutiny. “I need to go under again.”

_Once they’d reached the safety of the snug mountain cabin north of Montréal, he and Eames had had sex until they were both tired and aching and incapable, and then slept deeply and dreamlessly until a low and chilling moan outside woke them both in the early morning._

_“What the actual_ **_fuck_ ** _,” Eames had hissed, gun drawn and aimed at the nearest window._

_“Moose,” Arthur had managed to choke out around his laughter. He’d clutched at his stomach as Eames crept from the bed with the gun, peering cautiously over the windowsill._

_“There’s a bloody_ **_moose_ ** _outside,” Eames had said in disbelief, and then the moose had called again, resonant and haunting, and Eames had fallen backward onto his ass, his baffled expression shifting to outrage. “Why is there a bloody_ **_moose_ ** _howling outside the window?”_

_“It’s mating season, Eames,” Arthur had gasped. “It’s a female, a cow, and that’s how they call to the bulls.”_

_“Jesus.” Eames had jumped as the moose cow wailed again. “And the males are_ **_attracted_ ** _to this?” And Arthur had lost it, curling into the blankets helplessly as he shook in great convulsive snorts of laughter._

Arthur smiled at the memory and Eames reached over to stroke his cheek. “You’re remembering that sodding moose again, aren’t you?” He leaned in to take Arthur’s mouth in a gentle kiss. “It’s not my fault I didn’t grow up in Canada, love,” he whispered against Arthur’s lips, and Arthur couldn’t help the snort that escaped him.

Eames grinned at him. “That’s better. Lay back, petal, and I’ll hook you up.” Arthur smiled tightly and laid back to let Eames insert the needle with great tenderness, trying, without success, to suppress the memory of what had happened last time he’d gone under, weeks ago.

_The third day they’d been at the safe house, they’d gone into a dream, laying in bed next to each other, fingers lightly brushing. Eames liked to go under recreationally, to play around in a dreamscape or to practice his forging techniques. “Have to stay ahead of the young whippersnappers,” he’d joked once._

_And Arthur had been looking forward to it. Eames, dreaming for fun, was just what he figured he needed._

_And, since what had been rain in Toronto was beginning to come down as snow north of Montréal, Arthur had dreamed them into a tangled network of streets reminiscent of Tangier, one of Eames’ favorite warm places. They’d strolled along the narrow windings of cobbled streets bordered closely by brightly painted and tiled buildings with thick plastered walls, they’d smiled up at strings of lanterns or high striped awnings overheard, colorful rugs hanging from wrought iron balconies. The hum and cries of bustling open-air souks had echoed distantly around the curved lanes, along with the reek of fresh spices and mouth-watering smells of cooking food._

_Eames had paused to admire some coppery coffee pots when the shopkeeper emerged and stabbed him in the arm. He’d staggered backwards, reaching for a gun, and Arthur had realized that, under the embroidered kufi cap, the projection wore Eames’ face. A twisted, insanely furious, version but Eames nonetheless._

_“Arthur, what the hell...” Eames had paused before shooting the projection, turning to stare at Arthur, and then a wave of projections had surged out, surrounding them, all wearing Eames’ features, all murderous, all reaching for Eames._

_Arthur had shot him out of the dream, of course, but then the projections had disarmed and restrained him and turned on each other. It had only taken seconds in the waking world for Eames to realize Arthur was still under, but that had translated to minutes in the dream, minutes where Arthur had been forced to watch hundreds of versions of Eames kill each other in every violent way possible, bare-handed, with knives, with makeshift clubs, with chunks of cobbles and bricks torn from the street or surrounding buildings._

_And Arthur had struggled helplessly, horrified, until he’d focused on one Eames striding down the middle of the street towards him. One Eames, whom the others had left alone, had, in fact, actually parted for his passage before taking up the attack again in his wake. An Eames who’d worn a concerned expression as he’d come closer, who’d cupped Arthur’s face gently, who’d wiped away stray specks of blood with his thumbs._

_This Eames had glanced around in pride and pleasure at the carnage, and had whispered in Arthur’s ear in the low affectionate tones Eames was prone to use after sex._

_“Don’t worry, darling,” he’d murmured in that familiar sleepy sated voice. “I’ve got you...”_

_Then Arthur had felt the kick, had woken up to Eames staring at him in dismay._

“Don’t come under with me,” Arthur said as Eames was reaching for the other needle.

Eames gave him a sharp look. “I’d rather you didn’t have to do this alone.”

“He’s...it’s a shade, Eames. I have to kill it. I’d rather you didn’t have to see that.”

Eames frowned, chewing his bottom lip. “Is he a shade if I’m still alive?”

“What else could he...it...be?”

Eames made a wry sound. “Arthur, love. Pet. You never do anything in the usual way.”

Arthur rubbed his face in weariness. “Is there a usual way for this sort of thing? Anyway, the only instances I’ve heard about of shades being dealt with successfully...”

“Is by the dreamer himself killing them. Yes. And we have some personal experience with that, courtesy of Dom fucking Cobb.”

“Eames...” Arthur’s voice was soft as he reached out to him.

Eames sighed and took his hand. “I’ll give you a few minutes down there alone. But if there’s any delay, I’m coming down.”

Arthur nodded, squeezed Eames’ hand, and closed his eyes as Eames reached for the PASIV.

He found himself standing on a rocky beach, the sea grey and wind-tossed, storm clouds filling the horizon with ominous fingers of lightning. The shade was standing at the edge of the water, back to Arthur, hands clasped lightly behind him, incongruous in Eames’ favorite orange and yellow leather jacket. Arthur found his hands trembling faintly as he raised the gun, but it was a nearly point-blank shot, he was unlikely to miss.

“Darling, feel free to take the shot, but it won’t work.”

Arthur bit his lips together and held his breath, slowly squeezing the trigger. The gun dissolved away into grey sand before the click and release that would have freed him.

The shade turned, his expression soft, and held his hands out. “You won’t kill me.”

Arthur cursed and dreamed up another gun and another and another, feeling them melt away in his hands. “Why are you doing this?” he shouted in frustrated rage.

The shade walked towards him, a gentle smile on his face. “I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not a shade, love.”

Arthur stared at him helplessly as he approached, searching the well-known features, the fondness in his eyes.

Eames’ voice rang out from behind Arthur. “Then what are you?” The shade’s eyes flashed dark with hatred as he stared past Arthur, an unsettling sneer curling his lip. He snatched Arthur by the shoulder and stepped in front of him protectively as the rocks around Eames’ feet churned and sucked him under.

“ _Jesus!_ ” Arthur shouted, backing away. The shade turned, his hands extended, but Arthur backed further away, horrified.

The shade dropped his hands, looking sad. “I’m just trying to protect...”

Arthur shot himself awake.

Eames gave him a troubled look from the other side of the bed as he pulled the needle out of his own arm. Arthur returned a wide-eyed look of despair and scrambled off the bed, snatching the needle out of his arm and grabbing a coat on the way out the door. He didn’t realize it was Eames’ coat until he was a kilometer or more away and slumped under a pine tree, watching the snow fall heavily and thinking he should probably either go back or get out of his soaked slippers before his toes froze.

Since his throat tightened at the thought of going back, he pulled his feet out of the wet fleece slippers that had been a Christmas present from Eames a few years ago and set them carefully on top, using a corner of the thick coat to scrub them dry. Then he pulled his knees tight to his chest and folded the coat around him and huddled miserably into what should have been the comforting smell of Eames and Eames’ cologne, with the faintest trace of the hair gel he occasionally used.

The safe house was far enough out in the woods that the only sounds around him were the hush of snow falling and the occasional crackle or rustle of animals passing near by and Arthur let his breathing even out while he stared at the falling snow.

Whether the Eames in his dream was a shade or not, he was still a product of Arthur’s mind. Arthur had never been prone to hiding things from himself before; in his line of work, that led to unexpected results at the very least, and disaster at the worst. So, no matter how unpleasant or embarrassing, he tended to at least own up to things to himself.

But this maybe-not-a-shade was so unexpected, so bizarre, it meant he’d blind-sided himself with something. Something to do with Eames. Something his subconscious wanted to protect him from. Something...oh.

The steady crunch of boots in the snow came closer, no doubt following the tracks he’d left. Eames came into view, wrapped in two thick blankets and carrying Arthur’s coat and a pair of boots. He paused a few feet away and then stepped forward and went to his knees in front of Arthur.

He reached out to hold Arthur’s chin gently, studying his face but not requiring eye contact. Eventually he nodded and set the boots down, pulling a heat pack out of each, and then a pair of thick soft socks. He lifted each of Arthur’s feet to examine them and then put a warm sock on each, then a warm boot, lacing them up carefully. He tucked the heat packs into Arthur’s coat pockets and tugged Arthur to his feet, making sure he was steady before letting him go and taking his coat off. He slipped Arthur’s coat onto him, buttoning it up snugly as Arthur shoved his hands into the pockets with the heat packs. He shrugged into his own coat, picked up the sodden slippers, tucked Arthur under his arm, and wrapped the blankets around them both.

“Are you ready to go back?” he asked softly, lips brushing Arthur’s jaw. Arthur nodded, staring at the ground. Eames sighed and began guiding them back through the snow.

At the cabin, he set Arthur down on the overstuffed sofa in front of the wood-burning stove, gently stripped his coat and boots off, and tucked a woven throw around him. Then he put a kettle on the stove and set about making two cups of tea.

Arthur bit his lip. Eames never made tea for him unless he was very upset. “Eames...” His voice was scratchy from the cold.

“Wait,” Eames said quietly. When the kettle was steaming, he poured the water over the loose tea in the tea strainer and let it steep for a few minutes, setting a timer and then gripping the edge of the wooden counter, his back to Arthur. When the timer went off with a tiny ding, he removed the tea leaves, added sugar and cream, and brought both cups over to the sofa, handing Arthur his before he sat down next to him.

Arthur took a careful sip, and then another and another, letting the wet heat soothe his throat and work towards melting the lump there. Finally, he said in a low voice, “I think I figured it out.”

Eames put his cup down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands, staring out of a window at the snow. “Didn’t realize how angry you were with me?”

Arthur cradled the cup, taking a deep inhale of the fragrant steam. “Didn’t realize how far down I’d pushed it out of fear of driving you away.” Arthur sighed and put the cup down, turning to sit cross-legged on the sofa facing Eames. “I couldn’t even _think_ about losing you again, and so...I didn’t.”

Eames looked down at his hands. “It’s not like you to run from anything.”

Arthur reached out and played with the edge of the coat Eames still wore. “I’ve never faced the loss of anything, any _one_ , so integral to me.” He watched Eames’ profile, waited for what he knew was coming. “And before you say it,” he tugged on the coat sharply, getting Eames to glance at him out of the corner of his eye, “you don’t deserve any suffering or guilt for something you had no intention to cause or any control over.”

Eames huffed and looked down again, clenching his hands together. “Arthur.”

Arthur felt a spike of dread, let it show through the tremble of his fingers where he held the edge of Eames’ coat, let it show in the tremble of his voice. No more hiding how he felt, no matter how painful it was. “Eames.”

Eames snapped his head around to stare at Arthur, the tightness in his face softening as Arthur met his gaze easily, the corners of his eyes wet, but his expression resolute. Eames took a deep breath. “Are we in this together, love, or are you going to keep running away when it gets hard?”

Arthur felt a twitch of defensive anger, and then visibly let it go with a breath, his shoulders sagging. “I can’t promise perfection, but I want us to face everything together, and I will promise to do my best.” He met Eames’ eyes again. “Please don’t leave.”

Eames pulled him over onto his lap and buried his face against Arthur’s throat. “I don’t think I could, my darling, unless it made it easier for you.”

“No.” Arthur wrapped his fingers around Eames’ head and pulled his face up. “You leaving would never make anything easier for me.” He kissed him frantically, trying to reinforce his point, until Eames took a deep breath and moved away.

“We need to go under again,” he said softly but implacably.

Arthur dreamed them back onto the rocky beach, stormwinds whipping the wave crests to white froth. He dreamed them together, Eames wrapped protectively around him from behind, and he faced the furious eyes of the dream Eames and said, “No.”

The surf behind the figure tossed higher, bone-white fingers clawing through the foam, carving dark paths through the water. Wavering shrieks rose from the rollers and long seaweedy hanks of hair twisted up and sucked back down suddenly as driftwood-crooked figures ghosted through the glassy walls of water.

“Bleeding _hell_ , darling,” Eames whispered in his ear. “I will never again say you lack imagination.”

And Arthur had to laugh, turning his face to Eames with a grin. “If I’d known it would take something like this...”

Dream Eames took a step forward, his brow furrowed. “What is...what are you...”

Arthur turned back to him but then Eames reached out to the figure, stepping out from behind Arthur, but holding his hand tightly. “We want the same thing, mate. We’re both here to protect Arthur, aren’t we?”

“But you...”

Eames nodded. “I hurt him. Badly. But I’m trying to fix it.”

The figure looked at Arthur in angry bewilderment. “But you...”

Arthur held a hand out as well. “I was hurt and angry. And afraid. But that was because I don’t want to live without him. And that means here, in my subconscious, as well.”

Eames gestured to the dream version of himself, encouraging him closer. He reached out and touched his doppelgänger’s face with interest. “‘What is this face, less clear and clearer...’”

Dream Eames’ eyes brightened and a reluctant smile curved the lush lips. He took Eames’ wrist gently and said, “‘The pulse in the arm, less strong and stronger...”

Eames grinned widely and leaned in, a hairsbreadth distance from the other mouth. “‘...more distant than stars and nearer than the eye...’” they both recited, lips almost brushing against the other.

Dream Eames sighed and leaned back, giving Arthur and then Eames a still-tentative smile. “You will take care of him?”

“Always,” Eames said firmly. “Forever.”

“I must trust you, I suppose.”

Eames snorted. “It’s not as if you’re going _away_. You’re Arthur’s subconscious. The very fount and source.”

“Of all waters? I think not. What of that which flows from you?”

Eames tipped his head back and laughed. “Oh, are we calling that water?”

Arthur sighed as his subconscious, in a form of Eames, snickered, the sea settling to silken ripples and the sky clearing to display impossibly bright jewel-like stars across a deep blue velvet drape. “So this is the ‘small laughter’ part of the quote?”

His subconscious raised fingers to touch Eames’ mouth and then Arthur’s, his smile soft and relaxed.

Eames chuckled. “‘When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?’”

Dream Eames tilted his head with a wry look. “‘Under sleep, where all the waters meet.’” And in the next blink, all color and detail drained away from him to leave a wavering figure of clear water that splashed apart, droplets running down between the rocks to join the gentle waves that caressed the beach.

Eames sighed and turned in a slow circle, nodding once before taking Arthur’s hands. “Can we go have sex now?” he asked plaintively. “Wait, is moose mating season over yet?”

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, now I'm going to have to write something lighter from Eames' perspective, because wtaf? I mean, I had to put the moose in...
> 
> _Ash Wednesday_  
>  by T. S. Eliot
> 
> At the first turning of the second stair  
> I turned and saw below  
> The same shape twisted on the banister  
> Under the vapour in the fetid air  
> Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears  
> The deceitul face of hope and of despair.
> 
> _Marina_  
>  by T. S. Eliot
> 
> What is this face, less clear and clearer  
> The pulse in the arm, less strong and stronger —  
> Given or lent? more distant than stars and nearer than the eye  
> Whispers and small laughter between leaves and hurrying feet  
> Under sleep, where all the waters meet. 
> 
> _Macbeth_ , Act 1, Scene 1  
> by Shakespeare
> 
> When shall we three meet again?  
> In thunder, lightning, or in rain?


End file.
